Teach 'Em What They Don't Know How

Sitting in a meeting with high school educators and community leaders the other day, the topic of life skills arose.  On one side, we had several who expressed dissatisfaction because too many young people, according to them, didn’t have any.  Some blamed the system, while others blamed parents.  I kept my mouth shut, for I really didn’t have a dog in this fight, and it was getting close to 5pm.  On a Monday.  Following a nice long weekend at the beach.  Remind me never to schedule a work thing the day I return from a vacation.  Anyway, getting back to the point of pointing fingers, I silently played for both teams on the issue.

As someone who’s worked in education now for almost twenty years (egad!), I’ve noticed a slight downward movement within classrooms.  There’s an awful lot of apathy amongst many educators, for myriad reasons, I’m sure:  the pressure of teaching to standardized tests, the fear of calling a kid out on bad behavior for fear of a lawsuit, the anxiety that comes with underfunded schools that have cut the arts in order to beef up security.  It’s a long list, and I empathize with the good teachers who are still out there swinging, trying to make a difference.  I say good teachers, because there are an awful lot of bad ones simply making time.  You’d think that the hoops one must jump through in order to land a job teaching would cut out the riff raff, but they don’t. 

With that kind of pressure, it’s no wonder teachers can’t schedule a lesson or two on good manners.  You know, to reinforce what’s being taught at home?

Oh, yeah, that’s right – so little of it is taught at home these days, according to others attending the meeting. I agreed with them on several – not all – points.

We have, unfortunately lost the art of thank you notes.  Looking an adult in the eye and speaking to her is long gone, too, as is the good old-fashioned handshake.  Sure, every young person I know can show me how to close the apps on my phone properly, but ask them to set the table and they’re lost.   They can communicate up a storm via text, but try to talk to them one-on-one and see where that might get you.

Other complaints from the meeting included the following:

Give a kid $20 for a $12.99 item, and he can’t make change without a calculator (neither can I, I thought)

They’re too busy looking at their phones to interact with anyone (I do that on occasion, but only when surrounded by idiots and thumping bores)

They can’t eyeball measurements for recipes (that’s why God gave us measuring cups, lady).

They can’t figure the circumference of a room (Mister, is this really keeping you awake at night? Really?)

Their music is too loud (my parents voiced the same complaint against me in the 80’s …this is a generational thing, and had absolutely nothing to do with the topic at hand.  This was merely some yahoo desperate to throw in, unaware that I had a pile of laundry and a glass of wine to get home to.  Jerk.)

Sure, I’d like to see young people better behaved, and I’m happy to report that I personally know a number of young people who do understand the importance of saying and doing the right thing. They may not know how to make change or convert measurements, but those sorts of things don’t matter in my world.  Sure, their mannerly efforts may not be implemented with the greatest finesse, but at least they’re trying.  Some of them have fantastic support from their homes and their schools, while others do not.  I truly believe it’s a crapshoot as to who will make it and who won’t.  The ones who are making it seem to share a couple of common traits, though:   the right attitude and the desire to succeed. 

Perhaps if we recognized them a little more, and turned a blind eye to the others, things might actually turn out okay for us all.  Additionally, if we offered better examples of courtesy and how to host snazzy, classy parties, we might not have to say to them, “This is how you do it.”  They’re smart, these young people, and incredibly savvy.  They’d figure it out, eventually, I’m sure.

On a Roll

“The problem, Mrs. A, is that your children, to put it bluntly, are lazy.”

I blurted this out recently, stunning a mother and her two children into silence (a major coup, as they are incredible chatterboxes -loud, boorish windbags, quite frankly).

“And disrespectful,” I added, even though that really wasn’t the topic at hand.  I had a captive audience, so I figured I might as well go for it.

For those of you who don’t know, I spend a few hours a week tutoring children.  I’ve worked with Mrs. A’s children (a girl, aged 17 and a boy, aged 10) for a couple of years now.  They’re a nice enough family, although my time with them proves to be a bit much on occassion.  I don’t mind the tutoring aspect of it (when it actually occurs), but dealing with these children and their ingrained sense of entitlement wearies me, to say the least.  Plus, they consider themselves cute and funny.  They’re not.

The conversation began when Mrs. A informed me in a rather harsh tone that her daughter’s grades have been slipping over the last few months.  The girl is quite capable of understanding and applying advanced concepts, but knowing her as well as I do, I could easily figure out what’s been going on.  She’s simply an unmotivated teen who spends a great deal of time lamenting about the stupidity of school and teachers.

I’d left my ‘nice way of putting things’ hat at home, and ended up unleashing like I’ve never unleashed before when dealing with parents and their children.  Once upon a time, Mrs. Newman proceeded with caution in these scenarios, but that Mrs. Newman, like Elvis, has left the building.  I no longer have the energy to put up with foolishness and have taken the ‘call it as I see it’ practice to a new level.  You want me to give them homework, Mrs. A?  Sure thing, although we’ve tried it before and they didn’t do it, remember?  At this, the boy burst into tears and ran to the bathroom.  He’s pulled this stunt before:  when he’s tired, when he’s hungry, when he doesn’t have a pencil, so I paid his little outburst no notice.  I felt this ‘just us gals’ moment with Mrs. A and her daughter was meant to be.

‘My dear,’ I began, looking the daughter straight in the eye, ‘there is absolutely no reason for your grades to slip.  You’re not working as you should in school.  You have no respect for education.’

‘THAT’S RIGHT!’  yelled Mrs. A, who suddenly realized that I might actually know what I’m talking about.  I believe her original intent was to blame me for her kid’s poor grades.

‘And, ‘I continued, ‘if you complain as much in class as you do during our sessions together, of course your teacher will think you’re not up for the job.”  At this, the daughter began to cry, but at least had the decency to sit there and listen.

‘YES!’ proclaimed the mother, ‘SHE HAS A TERRIBLE ATTITUDE!! BOTH OF MY KIDS HAVE ROTTEN ATTITUDES.  I DON’T KNOW WHERE THEY GET IT!!!’

‘Quite frankly, Mrs. A, I feel as if my coming here is a waste of my time and your money.  Which reminds me-’

“Oh, yes,’ said Mrs. A in a much calmer tone, ‘I still owe you for the month.’

‘Actually, you owe me for last month as well.’

‘Um....I didn’t make it to the ATM.’ Big-eyed and flustered, she spoke in a soft voice now, one that I’d never heard her use before.  Mrs. A likes to yell, in case you haven’t figured that out, and she’ll yell at anyone:  me, her children, her husband, her in-laws, the neighbors, stray cats, and poor, unsuspecting UPS delivery men.

‘That’s okay.  I’ll take a check this time.’  I smiled, and even though I desperately wanted to go home, I’d be darned if I'd leave without some sort of compensation.  She obliged and grabbed her purse.  Awkward silence enveloped the room as she wrote the check.  Normally, I’d say something in order to break the tension, but since I was the cause of the tension, I figured I’d just let it ride.   

‘If I may be so bold as to mention this, you must know, too,  that  both of your children are easily distracted and will find any excuse to not focus on their work.’  I could have shared many examples had she asked for one, but the one I had in mind concerned her mother-in-law, who bangs pots and pans around in the kitchen during our tutoring sessions, preparing meals for her grandchildren that go uneaten because they only want the fake fast food from around the corner.  Based on the smell coming from the kitchen, I can’t say that I blame them.  I wanted to tell her, too, that her house was too dark and stuffy, and her bathroom sink could do with a good scrubbing.  ‘I go home every Monday night reeking of cumin and frustration,’ I wanted to say, but I didn’t, for fear of sounding impolite.

As she handed me the check, she asked if I had any additional days during the week in order to work with her children.  ‘You’re honest with them.  They listen to you.  They don’t listen to me,’ she said.   These kids don’t listen to anyone, but I couldn't help but feel touched by the sentiment just the same.

 ‘I can fit them in on Wednesday afternoon,’ I told her.

‘Oh, no, that won’t work.  How about Sunday?’

‘I (pretend to) go to church on Sunday,’ I replied, ‘but if something else opens up later in the week, I’ll let you know.

We hugged, the three of us, and I as left I could hear the boy still boo-hooing in the bathroom. Quite a show, indeed! I don’t feel as if boys shouldn’t cry, but I sincerely believe they should get a handle on it at some point, or at least learn to sob silently behind closed doors.  That’s my method and it’s served me well for years.

As I drove home that night, I thought about Mrs. A. She’s loud.  She’s gruff.  I do like her, though.  Given her disposition, she’s probably not accustomed to people being completely honest with her.  I’m happy I gave it to her straight, and I think she respects me for it.  Most people simply want the truth.  I’m not one of those people, but that shouldn’t stop me from telling it from time to time.

 

 

Things I Remember

This time of year causes me to wax nostalgic – it always does.  I assume it comes from having taught school for twelve years.  Things always end in May.

If you’ve never taught school before, you may not be able to relate to this idea.  I have a tendency to get attached to my students.  Perhaps it stems from not having children of my own, or perhaps it’s because I truly want what’s best for ‘Newman’s Own’ and take on more responsibility than I should.  Maybe it’s a combination of the two.  I don’t know, but I do know this:  Facebook and other forms of social media are great when it comes to keeping track of ‘the kids’, who by now are not kids anymore.

I read their posts and am amazed by what they’re all doing now.  They’re scattered all over the world, living, loving and succeeding.  The trouble I have, though, is thinking of them as adults.  They remain in middle school as far as I’m concerned, and I am absolutely bemused when I receive college grad announcements, wedding invitations, and word that they’re having children of their own.  A rush of memories befalls me – most of them good, many of them hilarious, and a few that are quite bittersweet.

One of them just graduated from med school.  I recall him always having a runny nose back then.  I hope his studies have helped him clear up that situation.

One of them has become a bit of a spiritual guru.  He never handed in his homework whilst a student in my class.  Even back then, I think he sensed what was really important.

The ham in class is now a ham on stage.

Other things I remember: 

The brothers who made my classroom an absolute delight with their enthusiasm for all things fabulous, who were not a delight to their older brother who was forced on more than one occasion to physically remove them from my room after school. He had places to be, I suppose, and a middle school classroom was not one of them.  I did not teach the older brother, but I liked him very much, and my heart goes out to his family on his tragic passing.

The trip to London in which a young man carried a pair of underwear around in his pocket because “Mrs. Newman said if it’s not in your suitcase that’s already loaded on the bus, that’s just too bad.”

The tiring jaunt to Paris in which a very weary Mrs. Newman told a young lady to ‘kick him where it counts if he’s bothering you.’

That time in Spain when Mrs. Newman told you all to be quiet and go to bed.  Mrs. Newman’s harsh tone did not stun you into silence, but her lack of makeup, bed-head, and super thick glasses did, and you all talked about it for days on end. “You don’t want to see her in the middle of the night,” I heard you whispering to the others.

When we went to Greece and Mrs. Newman was too preoccupied with other things to have as much fun as she should have had with you all, and for that she remains deeply sorry.

The mud day that virtually destroyed the front lawn of the campus.  What fun!

The boy who thought an entire bottle of soy sauce was necessary for our classroom chili cook-off.  We didn’t win that year.

The girl who left as quickly as she arrived when rumors regarding her well-being at home began to circulate.  I still think about her, and wonder how she’s doing now that she’s a twenty - (or is it thirty?) something.

The family of nine whose father signed his name on school forms with a dollar sign.

The laughter.

The love of good literature.

The power behind the written word.

And now the knowledge that every little thing we did really mattered…at least to me.